Free The Serpent's Sting by Robert Gott Page B

especially puzzling, as he was the model in the advertisement, and he had it pinned proudly to his mirror. There he was, holding a hammer and giving a reasonable impersonation of masculinity as he performed a small ‘everyday job’. He was, the advertisement warned, ‘In constant danger. Germs breed in the dust — cling to everything you touch.’ Fortunately, Guardian soap ‘gets rid of germs as well as dirt. A Guardian bath or shower is just the way to start the day.’ Roger neither started nor ended his day with a Guardian wash. Like many actors I’ve known, he thought the sweet smell of make-up and cold cream was enough to disguise body odour. It wasn’t. It especially wasn’t in the hot summer of 1942. He also had an actor’s indifference to modesty, and after he’d removed his costume, he liked to sit, his hands behind his head, with his legs splayed like an animated Barberini faun, only not quite so well formed.
    I’d invited Brian to come round after the show, and I told Roger that my brother might be paying us a visit.
    â€˜Beaut,’ he said, and made no move to alter his position. ‘It’s fucking hot, isn’t it?’
    There was a knock on the door — Brian had clearly learned from the last visit that it was inadvisable to burst in unannounced.
    â€˜Come in!’ Roger called, and Brian entered, to be confronted by the spectacle of Roger Teddles, all frank angles, like a butterflied capon. To Brian’s credit, he showed no surprise and nodded a polite hello.
    â€˜I’m Brian — Will’s brother.’
    â€˜How do you do. I’m Roger.’
    No hands were extended. I was already in my street clothes, although Brian pointed to a blob of greasepaint on my ear. I wiped it off, and we farewelled Roger.
    â€˜He’ll stay like that till the Tivoli show. He says he gets over-heated.’
    â€˜Is there a Mrs Teddles?’
    â€˜Yes, there is, which makes the way he smells even more of a mystery. You’d think she’d tell him.’
    â€˜I didn’t notice particularly. All I could smell was greasepaint.’
    The sky was overcast when we emerged from the stage door. It looked threatening. The air was hot and I couldn’t smell rain, but the clouds were dark and heavy.
    â€˜I wish it would rain,’ Brian said. ‘Where are we going? It’s odd, isn’t it, but I have no idea where the Gilbert house is.’
    â€˜This whole thing with Peter Gilbert and our mother is most peculiar, Brian. He’s suddenly an established and apparently long-standing presence in our lives, and I’ve known about him since, when, September of this year?’
    â€˜I remain astonished, Will, that that is true. They were discreet, but no one is that discreet.’
    It was a source of considerable embarrassment to me — not that I’d admit to this out loud — that I’d missed the twenty-something-year affair between Mother and Peter Gilbert. I was sorry I’d raised it, and asked Brian if he’d thought about John Gilbert’s accusation.
    â€˜I have. I don’t believe it. He struck me as highly strung.’
    â€˜So you don’t think Mother is in any danger?’
    â€˜Come on, Will. They’ve been lovers for twenty years. If he wanted to knock Mother on the head, he would have done it years ago.’
    â€˜Is he marrying her for her money, do you think?’
    â€˜I think he’s got more money than she has. He’s a very successful solicitor.’
    â€˜I rang John Gilbert last night. They live in Drummond Street. No wonder Peter Gilbert was able to come and go with ease. It’s only ten minutes from Mother’s house.’
    It was too oppressive to walk, so we took a tram, which offered a different order of oppression. Mother’s house was grand; the Gilbert house was its equal, though of a different style. It was one of an elegant, solid row,